Heartless, page 29
I look up at him, suddenly finding him closer than before. I drown in his scent—cigars and bourbon—and I’m bathed in his warmth.
I drag it all into my lungs and let it settle deep inside me as my heart thunders in my chest.
“It was a reflex,” I say. “You’re reading into it. You came into my space and I tensed up.”
“If that’s what you want to tell yourself.” His words are accompanied by an amused chuckle. “I’m trained to observe people, to catch the smallest nuances. I can read body language like a book, and, Calypso, the way you look at me, the way you move around me, tells me everything I could possibly need to know right now.”
“Which is . . .?”
“That you really fucking want me to kiss you.”
I don’t have a chance to protest when, without warning, I find myself slammed up against the wall, Crew’s mouth on mine and his fingers in my hair. My body melts into his as his tongue circles mine.
His lips are soft, a stark contrast against the hardness of his kiss.
Intrusive thoughts threaten to ruin this moment. I try to shut them out, but they only grow louder.
He kisses me like Mathias did. There’s a hunger there, an insatiable drive, and an entitlement. His hands and mouth command my body like he owns the damn thing, and it doesn’t put up the tiniest of fights.
“Calypso.” He cups my face in his hands, coming up for air.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think straight. The room is dark, and I only see him. He’s all over me. His touch, his scent, his presence. Everything about Crew Forrester permeated my cinderblock walls with one greedy kiss.
I’ve been down this road before, and I can’t do it again. Not with him. Not when I’m leaving this city in three months, one foot already out the door. As soon as The Tipsy Poet closes, I’m gone. There’s nothing for me here in Vegas.
“I should go.”
11
Crew
The first time my uncle sat me down with a deck of playing cards, he slipped a burly hand over my shoulder and said, “Crew, first rule of poker is you either play to win or you play for fun. Decide what you’re doing before you even sit down.”
People think poker’s simple. Easy. They don’t realize it’s one of the deepest card games out there. It’s not just about calculating pot odds, calling bluffs, and going all in. It’s about reading your opponents, looking for tells, watching out for the skinflints, and avoiding the aggressive players with little regards to their money.
I didn’t get where I am today by playing for fun, though it may have started that way.
Calypso leaves, and I don’t try to stop her.
The kiss wasn’t planned, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been on my mind since the day I wandered into The Tipsy Poet. One taste of those heart-shaped lips was all I wanted. Only problem is, now I want more.
I kick off my shoes and lock the door before checking on Emme. She’s sound asleep, little baby snores coming from her crib and her arms resting just above the top of her head.
She sleeps the same way I do.
I’ve only known this little baby less than a week, but every time I look at her, I can’t help but feel I’ve known her my whole life.
I pull her door shut with an inaudible click and make my way to my room, peeling off layers of clothes and climbing under the sheets.
Calypso’s probably doing the same thing on the other side of the wall.
I shut my eyes and graze my tongue along my lower lip, remembering the way her mouth felt under mine, and my lips pull up at the corners.
It’s decided.
I’m playing to fucking win, and Calypso’s the jackpot.
I’m half asleep, brain fogged all to hell, when my phone goes off the next morning.
“Good morning,” my mother’s unusually and perpetually loud voice penetrates the receiver and vibrates my phone. A piercing pain shoots through my eardrum, and I yank the phone out a good couple of inches. “Hope I’m not calling too early. You’re probably on your way to work right now.”
I rub my eyes and check the time. It’s seven-thirty.
I suppose if I were truly a teacher, I’d be halfway to work by now.
“Yep.” I force some alertness into my tone. “Just heading out the door now.”
“Okay, well, I won’t keep you very long,” she says. “I just wanted to let you know your father has an appointment at LVMC with his heart specialist Saturday morning, so we’ll be in the city. Thought we’d stop by and visit for a bit if that’s all right?”
I fly up when I hear Emme’s cries echoing down the hall.
Fuck.
“Yeah, Mom, that’s fine.” I swipe a t-shirt off the ground and tug it over my head with one free hand before scanning the room for the TV remote. I need something in the background to drown out Emme’s cries before my mother notices.
No dice.
“We also need to talk about Easter weekend,” she says. “Why don’t you have your sister stop over as well? We can figure out our plans then. I thought we’d head to the house in Lake Tahoe for a long weekend. The doctor’s ordering some good old-fashioned R&R for your father. A few days of fishing in the mountains should do him some good.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” Emme’s cries grow louder. She’s pissed. I never knew babies could be so fucking pissed. I clear my throat, shuffle around the room, do everything in my power to manufacture some background noise. “Okay, I’ll talk to you on Saturday.”
“No, no,” she says. “You’ll see me on Saturday.”
“Right. That’s what I meant.”
“Crew, you sound distracted. Do you have company?” Her voice crawls to a slow whisper.
I laugh. “No, Mom.”
Like I’d tell her if I did.
“What’s all that racket in the background? You can’t possibly be alone.”
“I’m just trying to get out the door. Running late. I’ll see you guys Saturday.”
“Crew,” she says, proving she’s still the Queen of Stalling. Getting her off the phone is always a chore. Noelle’s been trying to teach her to text for years, but she’s still convinced it’s only a fad and she shouldn’t bother learning.
“Bye, Mom.”
She sighs into the receiver, her way of passive-aggressively informing me she’s displeased with my brush off.
I don’t have a fucking choice. Emme’s screaming, and she’s probably wet or hungry or some combination of both, and she’s probably wondering why the hell no one’s coming to rescue her from baby jail.
“All right. I’ll tell your father you asked about him,” she says, yet another passive-aggressive dig. “Bye, Crew. See you in a couple of days.”
I end the call and fly down the hall to Emme’s room. Her crying subsides as soon as she sees me, and the rosy apples of her cheeks lift when she smiles.
I love my parents, but I can only handle them in small doses. Noelle too. She’s my best friend, but we both need our space, and it’s a miracle we didn’t kill each other in the womb.
But this little Forrester? The one with raven hair and her daddy’s blue eyes? I could never get sick of her.
12
Calypso
“Ouch.” I wince as Presley plucks a stray eyebrow hair, my eyes watering. “You act like I have a unibrow. Is this really necessary?”
“Actually, you have amazing brows. They’re perfect. I just had to get that one little hair. It was bothering me.”
“I don’t want to look . . . unnatural.”
I’m seated in the swivel stool behind the cash register Friday evening, a large bag of Presley’s makeup resting on the counter.
“You’ll look like yourself, only better.” She smiles, and I catch a mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes that makes me question whether or not I trust her with my face. “A leeeetle bit of powder, a smidge of blush, a couple of swipes of mascara, and a dab of lip balm. And then I’ll twist your hair into a glorious top knot that says, ‘I care, but I don’t, and you can shimmy into that get up I brought and hit the road.”
“I’m afraid to see what you brought. You’re like a size smaller than me.”
“I’m really insulted by your lack of trust.” She stands back, placing a dramatic hand on her hip and tsk-tsking. “Tonight you’re Cinderella, and I’m your fairy fucking godmother.”
I sit in silence, letting Presley perform her magic. Worst case scenario, I can go home and wash it all off. She’ll never know.
“He kissed me last night,” I say after a few minutes.
She steps back, tucking a makeup brush behind her ear. “Say that again?”
“You heard me.” I roll my eyes.
“What’d you do?”
“I kissed him back,” I say. “And then I left.”
Presley’s bony fingers grip my neck as she pretends to choke me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m not looking for a relationship.”
“One kiss does not mean he wants to commit himself to you, Calypso. Maybe he just wanted to fuck? And you swindled that opportunity like some pansy moron. God, what a waste.”
“The shop is closing in three months, and as soon as it does, I’m gone.” I sit up straight, sure of my convictions. “There’s no point in entertaining any kind of anything with Crew.”
“Then why even bother hanging out with him tonight?”
“Because we’re hanging out as friends.”
“A guy like Crew doesn’t have female friends.”
“We’re neighbors, and I help him with Emme. It’s nothing more than that, I can promise you.”
“Mm, hm.” Presley’s lips form a straight line as one brow lifts. “Keep telling yourself that, babe.”
I feel silly as I knock on Crew’s door at seven.
To anyone with an eye for style, I know I look fine. Presley piled my long hair on top of my head and tugged and pulled until it was perfectly messy, and then she brushed a few tendrils down to frame my face. I’m wearing some sort of small top that shows a hint of my midriff and a gauzy skirt that hits just below the knee. Tribal sandals with intricate turquoise beading down sides, also belonging to Presley, have temporarily replaced my Birkenstocks.
My tongue barely grazes my lips, tasting a hint of the rosebud lip gloss Presley insisted I wear as she chased me out the door of the shop earlier. My cheeks blush, but that rosy hue is surely hidden by the pale pink blush sitting on them.
Clearing my throat, I stare down at my polished toes—courtesy of Bryson, who couldn’t resist getting in on the action as he reported for his shift tonight.
Crew’s going to think I’m trying to impress him.
The door flings open before I have a chance to even consider ducking back to my apartment and washing all of this off me.
“Come in.” Crew’s eyes scan the length of me and his lips flash into a quick smile until our eyes meet.
He wears a teal button-down, cuffed at the elbows, his tattoos on full display. A pair of jeans, dark as night and free of wrinkles and holes, and a bright white pair of Chuck Taylors finish his look. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him in something other than faded jeans and lived-in t-shirts.
“I made him dress up,” Noelle says. I peek over his shoulder to see her sitting with Emme at the kitchen table. Emme’s chewing on a rubber giraffe and Noelle’s flipping mindlessly through a poker magazine. She glances up at me a moment later. “Oh, look at you. You dressed up too.”
Crew massages his temples and shoots his sister a look.
“It’s not a date,” I say.
He turns to me, an eyebrow arched. I’m desperate for him to say something. Anything to confirm or deny. I don’t think it’s a date. I mean, he didn’t explicitly say it was a date.
“Then what the hell is it?” Noelle laughs. “Just watching you two stand around like a couple of awkward teenagers going to prom is making my palms sweat. Clearly there’s something going on between you.”
Crew grabs his keys from the table, leaning down and kissing the top of Emme’s head. He whispers something to her, though I can’t make it out, and turns back to me.
“Ready?” He points to the door, and I nod, giving Emme and Noelle a small wave.
We step outside, and on the way to the parking lot, Crew walks beside me. Our arms bump and brush against each other a couple of times, and we laugh it off.
“Hope Noelle didn’t put you on the spot in there,” he says when we climb into his truck. It’s black and shines under the streetlamps. I’m willing to guess it’s freshly waxed too.
“It’s fine.” I buckle in and place my bag on the floor by my feet. A pink car seat covered in flowery fabric rests in the middle of the tiny back seat. “It’s cheap entertainment.”
“For her or for us?”
“Both?”
He smiles, backing out of the parking spot and slipping his right arm around the back of my seat. It almost feels like his arm is around me. A light mix of aftershave and clean soap fills my lungs, and I inhale again and again until I’m too used to the scent to smell it any longer.
“You look really nice tonight,” he says as we merge onto a busy street. “I meant to tell you that earlier.”
I smooth my palm along my skirt, my other arm resting against my exposed belly.
“Thanks. You do too.”
We pull up to a red light, and I feel the weight of his stare, which instantly makes my stomach swirl. I’m hyperaware of everything I’m doing now—the rate of my breath, the position of my hands.
The light turns green a second later, and Crew pulls ahead. The closer we get to the strip, the more congested the traffic. It’s one thing I’ve never gotten used to since moving here, and it’s why I’ve always taken the back roads to get to work. He navigates them with ease, like we’re the only two people on the road.
“What’s the plan tonight?” I break the silence once we have a few more miles under our belt.
Crew smirks. “I don’t make plans, remember? Figured we’d just wing it. See where the wind blows us.”
I rest my head against the glass of the passenger window, which is now chilled to a frigid temp thanks to the blasting AC.
“Sound good to you?” he asks.
“I don’t know how to gamble,” I say. “Never done it before.”
He laughs, flipping on a turn signal and careening us around a corner where a man dressed in a white, bedazzled jumpsuit waves at passersby before posing for pictures. We must be getting near.
The flicker of neon lights floods the cab of the truck. They’re beautiful, as gaudy as they are. Every color. Every size. They flash and twinkle, drawing us nearer. The strip feels almost cartoonish with so much going on. It doesn’t even feel real.
Crew pulls up to one of the dozens of casinos we’ve passed since pulling onto Las Vegas Boulevard, and he parks under a valet sign. A man in a maroon sport coat and black slacks opens my door and extends his hand.
“Welcome,” he says with a smile I’m sure he’s offered hundreds of times tonight alone.
“Thank you.” I take his hand and climb out, smoothing my dress as Crew comes around the back of the truck.
A flicker of neon blue flashes in his eyes from a nearby sign, and he offers a half-smile an Elvis impersonator would be jealous of. Glancing at the sidewalk just past the awning, I notice the streets are crowded. People walk shoulder to shoulder in a sea of map-holding tourists and drunken bachelorette party, tiara-wearing brides.
Crew glances down at me and extends his hand. I’m sure he’s mistaking my fascination with apprehension, but without realizing it, I offer mine right back. He pulls me into him, our bodies joined at the sides as we merge with the sidewalk masses.
“Stick close,” he says. “You’re going to see some crazy shit tonight.”
We stop at a walk-up bar half a block down the street and order a couple of cocktails in to-go cups before carrying on.
When in Rome, I suppose…
“What do you think so far?” He gives my hand a good squeeze.
I sip my frozen margarita and contemplate my response. I don’t know what to think yet. I’m thinking so many different thoughts, it’d be impossible to pin any one of them down.
“It’s a lot to take in,” he says. “And you haven’t seen anything yet.”
“It’s vibrant,” I say as we walk past a saxophone-wielding busker. “And loud. And fun.”
Crew digs into his jeans and pulls out a handful of loose change and some small bills, tossing them in the musician’s open case.
“That’s Eddie,” he says. “He works this section every Friday. You hear that? He’s playing Sinatra. Love and Marriage.”
“You like Sinatra?”
He squeezes my hand again. “Fucking love Sinatra.”
“What else do you love?” Damn, am I feeling this drink now. I’m swimming in a sea of warmth and unshackled from my inhibitions with every step we take down this crowded sidewalk littered with strip club flyers and takeout menus.
“Poker. Cigars. Late nights. Sleeping in,” he stares up at a flashing billboard where a Britney Spears show is being advertised as sold out. “Anything that makes me feel like I’m somewhere else.”
“And why would you want to feel like you’re somewhere else? Why don’t you just leave if it’s so bad to be where you are?”
Crew’s mouth turns down and he shrugs. “No particular reason other than I think it’s really fucking cool to get transported like that without leaving home.”
“Oh.”
“What, were you expecting some kind of tragic story? A damaged past?”
“Most people who want to escape are running from something.”
“Maybe I’m not like most people.”
“Clearly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He swings our hands until he pulls me around to face him. We’re stopped at a busy corner now, hundreds of people passing around us like we’re some kind of rock in a river with no intention of moving and all the time in the world.
I lift a single shoulder, tucking the side of my face against it.
